


Nothing of the night (is ever lost in shadow)

by arrowinthesky (restfulsky5)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha Clark Kent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Family, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magical Realism, Omega Bruce Wayne, Romance, Time Travel, sorcery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:55:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/restfulsky5/pseuds/arrowinthesky
Summary: Cursed into the future by a sorcerer promising to change his beastly ways, Lord Wayne is forced to reconcile with a new life in the primitive and restrictive world of alphas, betas, and omegas, the latter of which he’s so tragically become.





	Nothing of the night (is ever lost in shadow)

**Author's Note:**

> For Gav. ❤️

——~~~(((oOo))~~~——

 

The Crystal Forest  
The air is blue and keen and cold,  
With snow the roads and fields are white  
But here the forest's clothed with light  
And in a shining sheath enrolled.  
Each branch, each twig, each blade of grass,  
Seems clad miraculously with glass:  
Above the ice-bound streamlet bends  
Each frozen fern with crystal ends.  
For in that solemn silence is heard in the whisper of every sleeping thing:  
Look, look at me, Come wake me up for still here I'll be.

~William Sharp

 

——~~~(((oOo))~~~——

 

 

 

Although he’d ridden all morning, on a difficult course that most likely left his companions wondering what madness currently plagued him, Bruce returns home only to want to mount his horse and head for the valley again.

 

“Alfred,” he says in monotone, steeling himself against the grave look on Alfred’s face.

 

“Lord Wayne.” The old man stands stalwart at the top of the grand staircase like his father once had—unyielding and judging—so much that Bruce barely stops himself from groaning aloud.

 

He wipes the sweat from his brow, heaving an irritated breath. As if bearing his friends’ constant, annoying chatter isn’t enough, he must bear whatever cross Alfred wishes to throw at him today. Not that he isn’t grateful for Alfred’s keen insight into his affairs, but he does not wish to be so informed. Not after Lady Selina had refused him, thrice now.

 

Alfred’s gaze is sharp. “You were gone a long time, my lord.”

 

And still it had not been enough time. “I left at dawn. It’s hardly worth getting upset about,” he says, chuckling.

 

Lex, the companion he wishes he had not invited, snickers.

 

Alfred’s eyes harden. “I must speak with you.”

 

“What is it?” he asks testily, climbing up the stairs.

 

Alfred opens the door, giving his two companions a pointed look. “If we could speak alone, my lord.”

 

If Alfred is in one of his moods, there is no way he will leave Bruce and his friends alone, even though the old man is but a servant.

 

Bruce gives him a clipped nod, then turns to his friends. “Lex, Thomas, if you don’t mind.”

 

Lex lifts a disdainful brow. “Shall I return later?”

 

“I’ll only be a moment, I’m sure,” Bruce says, scowling in turn. “Randall will see you to the drawing room.”

 

Thomas takes Lex’s elbow, his smile complacent, but appreciated by Bruce. “Let’s humor the old chap, shall we?”

 

Bruce waits until after they leave to snarl at Alfred, “This could not wait?”

 

“No, sir, it could not,” Alfred sniffs.

 

“Come along,” he says, taking the steps two at a time until he passes Alfred and makes his way down the hall to the master bedroom. “Make it quick. I have much to discuss with Lex and Thomas that is of the utmost importance.”

 

Alfred trails behind, frustrating Bruce. “Such as?”

 

“A wedding.”

 

Alfred sucks in a breath. Bruce doesn’t elaborate until they are in his room, the door closed.

 

“She agreed?” Alfred asks softly.

 

He hardens his mind to the delight and anticipation on Alfred’s face and says, clearly, and succinctly, if only to smash Alfred’s hope in pieces in order to forget his own fractured heart, “... _No_.”

 

Silence fills the room.

 

Alfred clears his throat, looking crestfallen. “I do not understand.”

 

He shrugs. “It’s quite simple. She does not wish to marry me.” The insolent woman! He sneers and continues, “But little does she know she has set a course from which there is no escape.”

 

He’s been humiliated enough by her lukewarm affection. He’s allowed her to steer their relationship for far too long.

 

“To what do you refer, Master Bruce?”

 

He looks absently out the window. “If Lady Selina will not marry me, then I shall demand her father to return to the my treasury—what he has borrowed, ten-fold. Lex—and Thomas—will agree.”

 

“I do not know the details of his accounts, Master Bruce, but even I could say with full confidence that he cannot afford what you would demand from him.”

 

Bruce turns to his butler, piercing him with a look. “It is not about what he can afford—I am aware this will leave me no choice but to put him in the dungeon, the sentence befalling all debtors to the crown.”

 

“My Lord, surely you would not inflict such hardship upon his family.”

 

He smiles tightly. “Me, inflict hardship? I was not the one who could not pay his accounts.”

 

He can prove Lord Kyle has reduced himself to a pauper, but he does not want to damage his daughter’s reputation just yet. He must wait for the most opportune time.

 

“The fields have seen better years,” Alfred says.

 

“We have all suffered, Alfred, even the King,” he reminds him, frowning as he thinks of the limited fare at his own tables these past few months. “I do what I must to keep everyone from growing hungry, and from appearing weak in the eyes of the crown.”

 

Alfred seems to wilt. “Winter is coming, my lord.”

 

His lips curl into a snarl. “And?”

 

“Please consider extending your hand of generosity, as you would have before.”

 

His heart twists at the accusation. “Before?” he echoes.

 

“Four years ago, you gave a month’s supply of wheat to all who worked the fields.”

 

So he had, regretting it ever since. It had taught him that softness—his softness—was detrimental. Had they not constantly looked for handouts day after day? Week after week? For the gifts he no longer had to give? But that he used to maintain the security of his lands?

 

Alfred frowns. “Now, you turn your nose—“

 

“Silence!” Right or wrong, he cannot believe Alfred’s insolence. “You speak out of turn. Are you no better than Sir Luther? Who ridicules my bouts of moodiness? My weaknesses that threaten my ability to maintain my lordship?” he snaps, shame tearing at his chest. “You would do the same to me?”

 

Alfred’s eyes flash with pain. “N—no, my lord.”

 

“I beg to differ,” he hisses.

 

The old man bows his head. “Forgive me,” he trembles out in a whisper. “I seek peace.”

 

Peace? His home is the most calm it has been in a decade, thanks to his rule and his rule alone. He has made the difference—and his commands, though they be fierce and driving—not Alfred’s vision of peace.

 

No. Alfred has only caused him irritation, encouraging hope to grow among the servants like a bad weed. And amongst the peasants. Mayhap even his enemies, too. Once a dear confidant, Alfred has now become an irritant. A constant thorn in his side reminding him of his faults, working against any good he may have done—and anything he wants to accomplish. He cannot allow anyone to second-guess his intentions.

 

Alfred swallows. “Peace among the people, and the neighboring lands. But any course of action on behalf of their welfare must come from you. Please, do not do this. Your people cannot endure more tragedy. Famine has come, along with their reckoning. They do not have any fight left in them, like you had, although they want it, my lord.”

 

Bruce clenches his jaw, his chest tightening with anger. “ _No_.”

 

How dare Alfred assume he isn’t striving for what’s best for his kingdom or accuse him that he doesn’t want them all to live in harmony, not poverty. Does he think he wants to be on alert at all hours, looking for a fight? He wants to be comforted for once, not to comfort. He wants a life of solace, where he can brood without the eyes of all men and women turning to him in pain or in pity. He wants to know his people are cared for, not in wanting, but to appear weak before the very people he is trying to help—or, worse, before his enemies—is a catastrophe waiting to happen.

 

“Please,” Alfred cries out.

 

“Enough!” he orders without sympathy.

 

Alfred flinches, yet, to his credit, his gaze remains fixated on the floor.

 

Bruce stands before him, staring down his nose at his elder bowing before him, the first honest gesture he’s extended him. “Lord Kyle, as well as his family and their servants, and their servants’ families, will remain in my good favor if they pay—or if Selina agrees to become my wife.”

 

Alfred lifts his head. His eyes probe Bruce’s own, deeper than he’d like, as they did when he had been a boy, and Alfred a much younger man. When he’d followed child-Bruce through the woods and beyond the river, finding him and snatching him by the back of his trousers before he got into trouble. “You do not love her.”

 

“Who said anything about love?” he scoffs and turns to the mirror, running his hands through his hair, the long locks which had come loose and tangled like a nest during his ride, trying to make sense of them—of what his life will become if he is made a laughing stock. “We make a good match, and she is young. That is all that is necessary.”

 

Of course, that is not all. Lady Selina is the most beautiful of women. Her beauty will bring him good luck. Riches. Pride. Satisfaction. Power.

 

Alfred’s brow furrows, deeply, a habit he employs when he’s thinking too much, Bruce has noticed. “Your father loved your mother.”

 

“Yet, my mother cried herself to sleep most nights. Alone.” He does not speak of the physical violence they both knew occurred behind closed doors on occasion, after his father drank too much rum.

 

“Times were tumultuous. He was needed elsewhere. The kingdom—”

 

“—has always had its problems.” He turns around, a growl building up in his throat, a violent sound that fills the room and crushes whatever hope he’d had that this conversation would not end badly as others in recent days. “It is a fact, but where was his compassion? Or yours?”

 

“I could not be in two places at once, my Lord.”

 

Bruce stiffens.

 

“You were such a small boy,” Alfred murmurs, eyes looking as if far away into another world. “Sickly. Needy, yet full of curiosity. Requiring more assistance than the nurses could bear with your mother so ill.”

 

“I needed no one,” he snaps, hating the way Alfred refers to his childhood vulnerabilities. He does not need to be reminded how far he has come. He is respected now. Feared by all. To think otherwise will negate whatever progress he’s made. “Enough. I am tired.”

 

“‘Tis daylight, my lord.”

 

“Leave,” he says. “Do no return until night.”

 

Alfred slowly stands and steps away. “Lord Luther? Thomas?”

 

He tears at his cravat, flinging it to the floor. “Send them away with my condolences.”

 

“They’ve come far.”

 

Suddenly breathless, he leans against the wall, refusing to give him the satisfaction of even looking at him. He will not relent. In anything. “I wish to be alone.”

 

He is shocked when Alfred leaves without another word.

 

The room is empty and still—but his thoughts brew like a storm, and he cannot appreciate the silence he’d craved. He slumps into the chair at his desk, bringing a hand to his head, wishing he could bring to a halt the turmoil that ravages his good sense.

 

He should have replaced Alfred long ago, but something, a strange and unwarranted fondness for the man, has held him back.

 

He will write to Lady Selina this very hour—and give her his ultimatum. If she refuses his offer of marriage this last time, there is nothing else he can do but play his hand.

 

And tomorrow, when things are settled once more, and his mind clear, he will talk to Alfred.

 

 

——~~~(((oOo))~~~——

 

Bruce mellows once he’s changed and lounging by the fire. He’d sent the letter hours ago, and the task of writing it had seemingly exhausted him. He reads, but his eyes drift shut. Sleep beckons, but the warmth of the fire bothers him. ‘Tis strange, since the fire is small and should not give out much heat.

 

He forces his eyes open. Sighing, he removes his shirt, which has absorbed a fresh layer of sweat. He douses the fire with ashes and makes his way to the edge of his bed, where he sits. Where he sits—feeling uncomfortable in his own skin.

 

The door opens without warning and slams against the wall. Bruce startles, standing as a figure in swirling skirts charges at him. “Selina?”

 

She snarls at him like a madwoman, which proves to him she had been the right choice. No other woman has ever stood up to him, as irritating as it was.

 

“You,” she accuses, rushing forward.

 

His shoulders snap to attention. “Selina—stop!”

 

She does not and lifts a hand as if to slap him once she reaches him. “You cur!”

 

He catches her wrist, smirking, “Fighting does not become a woman.”

 

“Blackmail does not befit a man,” she spits out, eyes burning into his. “How dare you try to intimidate me into marrying you.”

 

“I’m sorry,” he says unapologetically, grabbing her shoulders before she twists out of his hold. “But is it not your father with whom my grievances lie?”

 

‘Tis a lie, but he sees now he will have to placate her somehow.

 

“I will not be paraded about as your wife,” she says through clenched teeth.

 

He lifts an amused brow. “I did not know you disliked the attention. Here I thought it would flatter you.”

 

“I am not your trophy,” she spits. “Neither will I be your prisoner.”

 

He works his jaw, stunned she would deny him again. “You refuse.”

 

“I will never marry you. You are a monster.”

 

He laughs. “Monsters don’t provide well for their servants? Their wives?”

 

“My father will go to prison. How is that not an atrocity? He is a good man,” she argues.

 

“No good men take as many lovers as he,” he mutters darkly.

 

Her face whitens.

 

His lips curl into a smirk. “You did not know?”

 

Her mouth opens before she clamps it shut.

 

“Ah.” It makes sense now. “You think him completely innocent, while he uses the funds he borrowed to keep his charade.” He smiles, showing a wide smile full of perfect, white teeth. “He’s whittled away at his purse until there’s nothing left for your mother, you, or your sisters.”

 

“He just needs time.”

 

He’s not surprised she’s apologizing for her father, the spineless fool. “I’ve given him time, and if you are not agreeable, he is, I’m afraid, out of luck.”

 

“You can’t be serious—he is my father, Bruce! We have servants—family—who depend on us.”

 

“You will manage, as you always do.” He eases his grip, narrowing his eyes on her. “Perhaps time alone in his cell will provide him the time he needs to rethink the path he’s paved.”

 

“Do not put him in your damned prison,” she hisses. “Another trophy, just as I’d be if I became your wife.”

 

“I’ll do what I’d like, Madame, whether or not you agree.”

 

“You are condemning us!”

 

“No,” he says letting go of her. “Your father is, then you, yourself. I am a poor bystander. A victim.” He looks at Alfred, who is standing in the doorway, but diverts to Randall, who is beside him. “Escort Lady Selina to her carriage. And ready my own.”

 

Randall looks at Alfred, then back at Bruce. “Sir?”

 

Bruce narrows his eyes. “I have a visit to make.”

 

Lord Kyle will meet his fate. He will make damned sure of it.

 

She makes a small noise in her throat. “When I said I loved you, I never met this man.”

 

“I have not changed,” he says. “This world has.”

 

She spits in his face.

 

He locks his jaw, wiping the wetness off his cheek with one swipe of his hand. “Was that really necessary?”

 

“Lie to yourself,” she says through clenched teeth, showing the fire he appreciates.

 

Indeed, he will miss her.

 

“Those people whose lives you’ve already destroyed by your selfishness know the truth,” she says. “As do I. And my father, whom you hatefully accuse of doing dreadful things. You’ve orchestrated this—I know you have. I’ve seen you do it before.”

 

“Ask him,” he says, lifting his chin. “Look him straight in the eye and ask him to tell you the truth.”

 

“Would you?”

 

He lifts a brow. “Pardon?”

 

“Would you tell the truth?” she challenges him.

 

He smiles lazily at her. “If we were married, my lady, and I had lovers, no one would find out in the first place.” He turns from her, shrugging. “Madame, as you have assured me that we will never marry, the truth, in my case, is of no concern of yours.”

 

——~~~(((oOo))~~~——

 

Separating Lord Kyle from his family—tearing him from their arms—had not been pretty, but the law is the law.

 

And someday, if he commits himself to his legacy at the manor, he’ll forget the betrayed look on Selina’s face.

 

He looks Lord Kyle in the eye, the cell door closing with a responding thud. “You and your daughter could have resolved this another way,” he tsks. “Now your kin—and your servants—will answer to me.”

 

The once proud, now humbled, man grips the bars, knuckles white, gaze scattering at the other poor souls around him. “My daughter was right,” he hisses. “You’ve done this—all of it—for a larger purpose. I did not see it before, but now I know. You are a monster!”

 

He ignores the jab. “Your lands are usually fertile, are they not?” He hums, quite pleased. “They will provide us with aplenty, next year, of course.”

 

Lord Kyle’s eyes are wracked with pain. “Please,” he whispers. “Let me serve my sentence, then work my own fields to repay you once I’m free.”

 

Bruce brings a handkerchief up to his nose, staring down his nose at him, eager to be free of the filth and stench of the prison. “You accuse me of wanting power over you? You forget yourself, sir.”

 

Lord Kyle looks at him, dismayed.

 

He turns away, calling out, “The prisoners here don’t answer to me. They are subject to the whims of the crown.”

 

 

——~~~(((oOo))~~~——

 

Once in the carriage and headed home, Alfred refuses to look at him in the eye.

 

“The King’s men will see to the prisoners within the month.” He frowns at Alfred. “I know you’re upset with me, but you’ll see it was the best thing for Lady Kyle.” He shakes his head, considering what a fool Lord Kyle was. “He doesn’t deserve them.”

 

“So you would play God and separate him from his family?”

 

“He owed me money.”

 

“Lord Rochester had as well, and I believe is in the cell next to Lord Kyle.”

 

“Yes, he is.” He stares at Alfred unflinchingly. “What, exactly, are you accusing me of?”

 

Alfred stares back. “The King’s men will pay you a hardy sum for new prisoners.”

 

He shrugs. “I abide by the law. You know this, Alfred.”

 

“I also know that you take every opportunity to increase your wealth, without any regard to whom you hurt in the process.”

 

He glares at him. “What was it that you wished to talk with me about?”

 

“I dare say, Lord Wayne, now is not the time.”

 

He snarls. “You are insolent.”

 

“No more than you.”

 

His jaw angry, Bruce stares out the window. “I don’t know why I keep you on.”

 

Alfred doesn’t respond.

 

“You are a disgrace to this family—to my father. He never liked you. He never did,” he mutters.

 

“He did you no favors, spoiling you.”

 

He scowls. “And neither did I. You hate me.”

 

“That is not true.”

 

Bruce can’t stop the sadness and anger from slamming into his chest. “I wish I never had to see you again.”

 

Alfred sucks in a breath. Satisfied he’d finally reached his mark, Bruce spares him a glance, only to feel so warm—and ill throughout his body—and something else he cannot express—he’s forced to slump back in his seat, blinking the sweat from his eyes.

 

“My lord?” Alfred calls out, his voice far away in the distance.

 

“Something….hap’ning,” he slurs, pain erupting from his belly, through his groin, and— it’s fire—burning him from the inside out. “Alfred—help me.”

 

And Alfred—does nothing.

 

He groans, the ache gnawing at his insides, painful tears pricking the backs of his eyes. “Bloody hell, what is...what…” He gasps, his mind—heavy—panicked—lost. This strange conflict floods his thoughts, every inch of his body a slave to the aimless, nonsensical desires racing through his head. He feels close to breaking, every breath, every second, carving out his heart into a hollow, worthless nothing.

 

He’s nothing. He’s nothing, yet he needs—he craves—but he doesn’t know what.

 

“Lord Wayne?”

 

“Alfred,” he rasps, reaching for him with a shaking hand.

 

Alfred’s face turns to stone. “I’d assist you, but I don’t know if you would appreciate my interference.”

 

The rest of his body starts to tremble, the carriage seemingly shrinking, hopelessly trapping him inside. Worse, still, Alfred ignored him. Discarding him after all these years, having once been the very man who had always watched out for him before.

 

But if Alfred will not help him, he will help himself.

 

“Stop,” Bruce cries out hoarsely, dragging a hand up to slap it against the side of the carriage. “Stop!”

 

Miraculously, the carriage lurches to a halt.

 

The door opens. With the footman’s help, Bruce blindly emerges from the carriage, only to fall to his knees in the dust.

 

He wraps his arms around himself, head brushing the ground. He opens one eye to see the front of Alfred’s shoes beside him, and nothing else from his prostrate position.

 

A warning bell rings in the back of his mind. “You,” he says in a rasping voice. “You did this to me.”

 

His stomach cramps with fear. Is it poison? How long does he have left?

 

“You were always very smart,” Alfred murmurs, and a hand—Alfred’s hand, Bruce thinks—caresses his head. “Kind as a young boy, until—”

 

“Help...me,” he croaks.

 

“I believe you just released me from your service.”

 

He doesn’t remember doing so, but hadn’t he considered it? “I—I was wrong.”

 

“Some apologies come too late.”

 

“M-make it stop,” he cries out.

 

“I promised them I’d take care of you.” Alfred crouches near him, lifting Bruce’s chin with a single finger. “Look at me, Master Bruce.”

 

The gentle command cracks something in Bruce. His breath hitches, and he stares up at Alfred, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and trailing down his cheeks.

 

“You’re not dying,” Alfred says.

 

The calm way in which he answers him does nothing to ease his fears. “I don’t know what is happening to me,” he confesses.

 

“I know,” Alfred says softly.

 

He squirms, ashamed. His will is fading. His hand twitches—he wants to slide it down to his cock, but in front of Alfred? Bloody hell, what is happening to him? He whimpers, closes his eyes, imagining it, but he uses every ounce of his control not to explore the burning parts of his body.

 

“We are out of time,” Alfred murmurs.

 

“Time?”

 

“Yes. I’m sorry, Master Bruce. For everything. Forgive me. Some of this—is my fault.”

 

“What?” His body tingles from head to toe, a different sensation falling over him than what he’d felt before. He closes his eyes, breathless.

 

“I’m sending you away. Sending you back— _ahead_ ,” Alfred corrects. “For a lesson.”

 

He doesn't understand what he means by lesson—but does it matter? “Wh-where?” he stammers, eager to go anywhere but here. Maybe he’ll feel like himself again.

 

“Be patient. You’ll understand soon enough.” Alfred hesitates. “I know you hate me, but never ever think I’ve loved you less because of your selfish actions. But I must try, you see, to make you understand what you've become.”

 

“And what,” he hisses vehemently through his teeth, “is that?”

 

“A beast.”

 

Shame pours over him like an endless wave, drowning him until he feels obligated to tell him the truth. That he doesn’t know why he does these things. That he knows they are wrong, but something within him, something dark, is twisted. Wrong. Damaging. Imbalanced.

 

And he doesn’t know how to fix it.

 

“Trust your instincts,” Alfred whispers in his ear. “They’ve never failed you before.”

 

Bruce cracks open his eyes.

 

But Alfred isn’t there.

 

The carriage is gone.

 

The footman has vanished.

 

He stumbles to his feet, shaking and staring at the sights and sounds around him—until he peers up at the sky, where looming structures tower over him like creatures straight out of a nightmare and into the night.

 

He shuts his eyes against the vision, horrified, and scrambles to a wall, where he slides down to a huddled position, making himself as small as possible.

 

He’s confused. Alone. Afraid.

 

_And burning with fever._

 

Nothing familiar is here—only the strangest, most frightening city that Bruce has ever seen.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! This one will be twisty, and I’m not sure, but it “could” have mpreg in it. I didn’t want to tag it with that just yet, but it’s possible.


End file.
